


Step Two: Building a False Sense of Security

by pinkpop



Series: A Guide to Honeytrapping: The Art of Screwing the Bad Guy [2]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Bonding, Booty Calls, F/M, Jack being Jack, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:01:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25231285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pinkpop/pseuds/pinkpop
Summary: Reader is invited back by Handsome Jack for another round of casual sex in his penthouse. But things are never that uncomplicated.
Relationships: Handsome Jack (Borderlands)/Reader
Series: A Guide to Honeytrapping: The Art of Screwing the Bad Guy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796794
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	Step Two: Building a False Sense of Security

You’re sat on the cliff outside of Sanctuary’s walls when Jack’s voice comes through over your Echo. He’s got a mouthful of food and speaks to you so casually, like you’re already midway through a conversation. He has a way of making you feel like it's normal to be talking to him. Like it's okay to laugh at his jokes or enjoy hearing his riff about whatever concoction of madness he's got going on. He's called you up three times since the two of you had sex on his sofa in his office. Each time, he's really just flirted with you. Inconsequential stuff like "what are you wearing" or "I just killed a guy, you wanna talk dirty?"  
But this time, he's looking for something a step further than flirting. You know it before he's finished the first sentence.  
“So I have this big ass penthouse apartment in the city of Opportunity,” he says between crunches, lips smacking lazily. “Huge shiny tower, gold railings, uber king-sized bed that vibrates. You know, all the basic stuff. Meet me there in like an hour.”  
“And why should I do that?” you ask, swinging your legs back and forth over the edge of the cliff.  
“Because I’m bored,” he says, speaking like the answer was obvious and shame on you for not already knowing it. “And because my bed friggin’ vibrates, I mean… come on.” Rustling ensues as he fishes another crunchy snack from the bag.  
You smile to yourself, despite this whole setup being a play. You know better than to let a man like Jack win you over with a few jokes and the promise of a vibrating bed, but he is right. That does sound pretty sweet.  
“You know, I’m really trying to think of a reason to give up my afternoon for you,” you say, “but I just can’t seem to think of one.”  
“Uh, because I’m hot?” Jack offers. _Crunch._ “And because I’m rich. And I have as much champagne as you could possibly drink and a whole lot of free time to fill with whatever illicit activities you can dream up.”  
“You did promise me champagne," you relent. "You raise a good point.”  
“I always do.” _Crunch, crunch, crunch._ “That a yes?”  
“It’s a maybe,” you tell him.  
“It’s a yes,” he states, smile in his voice. “Good. I’ll see you in an hour. Dress sexy.”

The streets of Opportunity are quiet as you wander through them. There’s Hyperion loaders of every kind and the odd engineer here and there, yelling orders in the distance or talking to another grumpier engineer over a set of blueprints for whatever scheme Jack has cooked up most recently. You’re kinda hoping he’s got a dungeon being built somewhere. One with chains and other exciting things. But it’s probably just dull apartment buildings.  
Boooo.  
You find yourself in the tower at the heart of the city, the corridors trailing off from the central foyer like a giant sun with rays of white marble floor and glossy lights. Like everywhere else in the city, the place is unfinished and a little on the emptier side. Which suits you just fine since meeting Handsome Jack in his penthouse for a booty call isn’t exactly something you want making front page news. Your work has to be discrete. Espionage. Sexpionage. Whatever you wanna call it, it’s best done without the neighbours watching. Unless Jack’s into that, of course, in which case… nevermind. You keep your head down as you make your way through to the lift and you pray to God that nobody gets into the lift with you on your way up to the top. Explaining why you’re dressed like a high-class prostitute in a city that you’re not technically supposed to be in could get a little dicey.  
Jack is already waiting in the doorway of his apartment when the lift doors glide open with a hiss. He’s leaning against the metal frame of the door with his arms folded across his chest and a smile plastered on his face.  
“Knew you couldn’t resist,” he says as you strut towards him.  
It’s definitely not ideal to have to turn on the charm that quickly. You figured you’d have at least a few minutes to prep yourself before he’d open the door and greet you - time to get into character, adjust the cleavage, pretend you're not about to screw the worst person on the planet, etc. But you only had half a second between the doors of the lift opening and Jack making eye contact with you to make yourself look like the same woman who had his fingers in her mouth a few days ago.  
Thankfully, it’s not hard to act like you’re attracted to him. If there’s one thing he’s right about (and let’s be real, there’s not many of those) it’s that he’s hot. Like, serious sugar daddy material. And I gotta agree with you; he could invade my planet any day. Just saying.  
You stop at the doorway and he pushes away from the frame, stands over you. Even though he’s only about a head taller than you, he still manages to make you feel a lot smaller. And you suppose that’s the point, right? Make people feel small so that you feel higher up the food chain than them. But you and he both know that Handsome Jack doesn’t need to stand on a stepping stool in order to be on top. He’s got the money, the fame, the power. All he has to do is click his fingers and a thousand lackeys will come running. No, he likes looking down at you because it’s fun for him. Gets off on being in control.  
“Tell me,” he smiles, “was it my dashing wit or my irresistible good looks that had you running back?”  
You tilt your head up to make up for the height difference. If anyone is playing anyone, it’s _you_ who’s playing _him._ Not the other way around. “You promised me champagne,” you say sweetly, your face so close to his that you barely have to be audible for him to hear it. “And with your bank account, I’m expecting it to be _good_ champagne.”  
“Oh, it’s good,” he nods. “But I’ll let you be the judge of that.”  
Jack pulls back, heading inside the apartment and leaving you to close the door behind you. The place is bigger than the total square foot of Sanctuary and the ceilings reach way too high to ever be concerned with dusting the cobwebs from the corners. Not like Jack would have to do that for himself anyway. He was right about the gold railings, too. There’s two spiralling staircases on either side of the main room that lead up to the same mezzanine that seems to house the famous vibrating bed. Both staircases share the same gold railings as the mezzanine and a huge glittering chandelier, hanging from the tallest part of the ceiling, is also coloured in gold.  
“Where’s that bloody champagne bottle,” Jack mutters to himself, fussing about in the kitchen area. “Ah! There it is.”  
There’s a sudden pop and a handful of pings as the cork flies from the mouth of the bottle and bounces once, twice, three times across the marble floor. You flinch slightly, but manage to remain inside your skin, thankfully.  
Jack grabs two bubbly flutes and you both converge on the huge semi-circle sofa in the centre of the seating area. With an oddly nervous fluttering in your chest, you gracefully take a seat with a single sofa section between you and the man himself. He pours the champagne. You chew on the inside of your lip and cross one silk-smooth leg over the other. He doesn’t even look up at you - too busy making sure the glasses don’t overflow onto his nice frosted glass coffee table. But you steal a look at him while he concentrates. He’s in a smart suit, the sleeves rolled up to give him that too-cool-to-care edge that he does annoyingly well. He wets his lips with his tongue as he reaches over and places the bottle down behind the glasses.  
“You never told me what convinced you to come,” he says. “My wit or my looks.”  
You sigh inwardly. You can grant him this one, at least. Just once. “Can it not be both?” you ask, circling the rim of your champagne flute with one delicate finger. He looks you in the eye over the rim of his glass as he takes a gulp straight down. By the looks of it, he’s not fixing to be sober tonight. And I mean, who could blame him? If you’ve got the money to be getting wasted on expensive champagne, then why in the everloving hell wouldn’t you, right?  
“Is it both?” he asks.  
You smile at him.  
The room is quiet, save for the ticking of an unseen clock somewhere behind you. Jack raises his glass again. “It’s both,” he grins, smugly. Nothing gets a man like Jack going more than a few strokes of the old ego. You just wish it weren’t so easy to get him into bed. You’d like a little bit of a challenge, at least.  
“What is this place?” you ask, ignoring his smile and gesturing at your surroundings. “What’s it for?”  
“You mean the apartment or the city?”  
“The city,” you confirm.  
Jack leans back against the armrest of the sofa, resting his arm along the back of it. He’s got one leg up and folded under the other in the most carefree way that it almost makes you want to kill him, just to show him how paranoid he should be. But if you killed him then you definitely wouldn’t get those armoury codes. And you wouldn’t get laid, either. So the little switchblade strapped to your thigh underneath your dress will have to be content with staying dry tonight. Unlike you, here's hoping.  
“It’s a business venture,” Jack replies, vaguely. He takes another sip of his bubbly.  
“What kind of business?”  
“Apartments, mostly.”  
“Mostly?”  
Jack chuckles, looks at you like his cogs are running overtime. “Why are you interested?” he asks. “You’re just here to sleep with me, right?”  
You covertly swallow down the fear that you may have just royally fucked up. Like, long-term fucked up. The whole plan. There’s a moment between Jack’s words and his next sip of champagne where you consider just jumping his bones. Honestly, he’d probably go for it, suspicion or no. Men like him wanna get laid far more than they wanna talk about all the ways in which someone could be out to get them. But you keep your cool. Play it steady.  
You place a palm to your chest. “Is that all I am to you, Jack? Just another toy?” you ask, feigning injury. “You wound me.”  
Jack smirks. “You fancy the idea of being more, princess?”  
You hold back from putting the smile into full throttle; instead, just giving him a taste of one. Eyes glittering through no fault of your own, you tilt your head. “Don’t you already have a girlfriend, Mr CEO?”  
He hums, leaning forward and putting his empty glass on the coffee table. “I’m a real family man.”  
“I can tell,” you giggle.  
“But Nisha’s not…” he trails off, clears his throat. He defaults back to his bravado. “I’m not a one woman kinda guy.”  
“Nisha’s not what?” you ask, full manipulation mode engaged. It’s probably not right for you to use whatever’s eating Jack up as a way to get into his head. But you gotta do what you gotta do. And what you gotta do is get your hands on those codes. So you let your mask slip a little, a careful and calculated slip. Offer him something a little more real in exchange for a little realness in return. You place your glass on the coffee table. “Things aren’t going well between you?”  
Jack looks uncertain, stares down at the coffee table for a moment, but he brushes it off quickly. Doubtful that he’s ever seen a therapist in his life, you assume he’s been holding this in for long enough now. It practically bursts out of him when he speaks.  
“Ah, I just don’t love her,” he admits. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s hot as hell and the sex is friggin’ bomb. She's a cool chick, y’know? But she’s not _the_ chick. I figured that… I figured she would be. I mean, she’s perfect for me. She likes all the murder ‘n’ stuff and she lets me choke her when I’m feelin’ down in the dumps. But I don’t feel... “ Jack trails off and collects himself, shaking it off and looking up at you like he’s just now noticing that you’re in the room. “Whatever, I’m over it,” he says.  
You feel a little miffed. Not angry, just miffed. This mission was supposed to be cut and dry. Screw him, get the codes, and get out of there. But you feel like there’s a little more at play here than just manipulation. Like there’s a real sympathy for Jack inside your chest that leaves you with the urge to… comfort him? No, that can’t be right. You’re supposed to be fucking him, not singing him lullabies. Maybe you just have indigestion from the bubbly. Still, comfort in time of need is the perfect way to offer someone a false sense of security and if you're gonna pry those codes from him, then he's gonna need to feel like you're a safe bet.  
“You could always ditch her if you don’t wanna be with her anymore,” you say, a little uncomfortably. Screwing him was one thing, but homewrecking? Yikes. This isn’t your business and you know it. “I mean, she’d probably cut your throat while you slept, but hey.”  
Jack looks up at you, the twinkle returning to those mismatched eyes again. There’s a heartbeat’s worth of time that passes in silence and you know damn well what’s coming before he even makes a move. But sure enough, a move is exactly what Jack makes.  
He leans over, presses his palm gently to your jaw, and kisses you. And just like that, the awkwardness has slipped from the air between you, leaving the room filled with the steady drumming of your heart. Pushing you back into the corner of the sofa, Jack is practically on top of you in a millisecond. You can feel his fingers behind your ear, holding you soft as anything. He’s kissing you gently, too. A lot gentler than he did the other day. But that doesn’t last very long once his hands start a wanderin’. The kiss deepens, your pulse gets quicker. You can taste the champagne on his tongue. Or maybe it’s your mouth that tastes of expensive bubbly. You can't tell.  
Jack trails manicured fingers up the outside of your thigh, skimming over the switchblade you’re concealing and either accidentally or actively ignoring it. Either way, he seems far too engrossed in your kiss to bother asking why you’re armed. And I suppose you do live on Pandora, so taking a weapon to a saucy high-rise hook up really isn’t that weird. It’s actually considered foreplay back home.  
Jack’s tugging at the underwear you have on under your dress when you reach a hand down and stop him. He breaks away from the kiss and you shake your head, admittedly just trying to buy yourself some time to figure out why in the bloody hell you’re stopping the most handsome bastard on the planet from getting his hands all up in your no-no zone.  
“I don’t know if this is what I want,” you tell him, making it up as you go along. This job was always going to involve a lot of you playing it by ear, but it would probably be a lot easier to improvise if Handsome Jack wasn’t so goddamned distracting. Those stupid mismatched eyes and the perfect frigging hair. Goddamn him.  
Jack looks at you and smiles, teeth gleaming under the twinkling light of the chandelier above. Every part of this place is glitzy; even its occupant. He tilts his head. “Why?” he asks, looking pretty amused, all things considered. That’s a first. Normally when you turn a guy down at the no-no zone checkpoint, he’s already prepared at least ten bad things to say about you and fires them all off at once.  
But Jack just hovers over you, smiling. Coupled with the way he'd drooled over you in his office after you'd rejected his kiss, I'd hazard a guess that you've got yourself a fine example of what we like to call an absolute headcase. He’s a strange one, that’s for sure.  
You swallow, make yourself look as innocent and doe-eyed as possible without it coming across as childish. You even play with the collar of his shirt for emphasis. Physical contact - an emotional manipulator. Works particularly great on people who specifically want to be touched by you. “I don’t think I’m happy being just another cheap fling,” you tell him.  
Jack quirks an eyebrow, looking mighty impressed with himself. You can almost hear his internal dialogue as he congratulates himself for being too handsome to resist falling for. _Well done, Jack, you nabbed another one._ Unfortunately for him, it’s another lie. You have a job to do and that’s build trust with him. If he thinks you wanna fuck him, then that's cool. You might gain access to his en suite bathroom and the coffee maker in his kitchen. But if this self-absorbed asshole thinks you’re in love with him, if he thinks you’re on his side, then then it’s game over for him and his secret armoury codes and hello to the Crimson Raiders naming you Hero of the Year and setting up a national holiday in your name, street parties and all. And I don't know about you, but I do love a good string of bunting.  
“If you knew how much that champagne cost me, then you’d know you’re anything but cheap, sweetheart,” Jack says.  
“Good point,” you smile, biting your lip. “But my point still stands.”  
You squirm your way out from underneath him and he looks totally baffled. Handsome Jack? Genuinely being rejected? Error, error, does not compute. Jack.exe has stopped working. He pushes himself upright as you shimmy down the fabric of your dress where he’d rolled it up to your hips. You don’t know if you actually plan on leaving. You haven’t decided yet. You know you don’t _want_ to go, however; that, you’re certain of.  
“Wait, wait, wait,” Jack says, shaking his head in disbelief, obviously rebooting after his minor system crash. “I pulled out all the stops, even wore my best suit, and you’re telling me you don’t wanna jump my bones? _Why?_ ”  
“It’s not that I don’t want to,” you tell him, hiding your smile by turning your back to him. “I just… I know what people say about you.”  
“What do they say about me? That I’m good-looking? Charming? Undoubtedly hilarious?”  
You turn around to face him, letting him see that pearly smile now. “Yes, all of that,” you grin. “But also that you swap women like you swap your underwear.”  
“Hardly ever!” Jack says, defensively. “The women thing, obviously. Not the underwear.”  
The stifled giggle goes very unstifled. Comes out like you’re blowing a raspberry. Not very attractive in the slightest, but Jack beams up at you nevertheless. He gets up from the sofa and slopes towards you, hands gliding over the silk fabric at your waist. He even bends his knees to match your height a little more, which you know is a manipulator of his own making. One of those things he does to make people feel good about being around him. It works a treat, I must say. You look like you’re about to start drooling like a skag in heat.  
“Come oooon,” Jack croons, sparkles in his eyes. “I know you wanna stay,” he says, tugging you back towards the sofa again and pulling you down with him onto the bouncy, freshly plumped pillows. You land beside him and he leans in to kiss your neck again. Your limbs weaken at the feeling of him buried against the flesh at your shoulder; heart fluttering like you’re at the peak of a roller coaster and looking down at the people beneath.  
He comes up and meets your gaze, but yours falters, dips to his lips for just a moment. And he knows as well as you do then, that it’s all over. You’re not going anywhere. You'd rather break both of your feet and run a marathon than get up from this sofa and walk your perfect ass out of that door. You know it, he knows it, I know it.  
With expert hands, he wanders his fingers up inside your dress and all of your Mercenary Day’s come at once. Jack wets his lips and flashes you a grin as you gasp - the sound is a victory bell for him. It’s a done deal, signed on the dotted line, and he couldn't be happier about pulling that breath from you. He's watching you with amusement and you roll your eyes and cover his with the palm of your hand, drawing a genuine laugh from him that sounds like the most real thing you've ever hear out of his mouth.  
He dips for a kiss and you curl your fingers into his collar, the fabric almost as soft as what he’s doing with his fingers. _Good lord, those fingers._ In a flurry of heavy breaths and soft sighs, he tips you over and lays you down, hovering between your legs for a few breaths before heading downtown. All is but a hazy memory as he trails kisses down over your belly button and leaves a few littered on the insides of your thighs. He hits the spot immediately and your mind goes supernova on impact. Seriously, your whole brain blows like a maliwan nova shield. You stare up at the chandelier, all the sense drained right out of you as Jack works his magic below the belt. You knew there was a better use for that tongue than all the damn talking he does.  
He hums against your skin and your legs jolt, damn near clamping shut with his head caught in the middle. Not a bad way to die, to be fair. You're halfway to the finish line when you decide you don't wanna be done yet. You have so much more planned that you don't wanna be wasting all of your energy on the foreplay.  
Burying your fingers in soft hair, you pull his head back and look at him. A wicked grin creeps across his face, gleeful and mischievous. He gives what is possibly the hottest little breathless chuckle you’ve ever heard and something sharp and electric careens against your ribs, crackling through your chest like a bolt of lightning. In all honesty, you don’t think you’ve ever been so excited about a bad guy going down on you; and as a resident of Pandora, you’ve screwed your fair share of bad guys.  
But this one? This one takes the cake - cherry and all.  
He pushes up the fabric of your dress, exposing your midriff to the cool air-conditioned air of the penthouse. In an agonisingly slow act of torture, he works his way up your stomach, leaving kisses and occasional bite marks on his way. He makes a meal of it, too, making sure to go inch by inch, leaving your insides doing somersaults each time he drags his teeth across your goose-pimpled skin. Sharp nicks and nibbles leave painful bruises at your throat but you wouldn’t have it any other way. Eventually, his lips are on yours again; the tingly taste of champagne and your own wetness on his tongue.  
You can smell his cologne; that sweet burnt sandalwood smell mixed with vanilla and something else that you can’t quite pin. Something coppery - metallic. You wonder if it’s blood. Then you wonder if he killed someone recently. Maybe even in this apartment, right before you got here. Something about it makes you want him more; like you’re balancing on the edge of a sharp cliff and you have that niggling urge in the back of your head to jump. There’s so much allure to the idea of being within the clutches of a man who could so easily kill you. The fact that you’re probably only alive because he wants you to be - it’s a power trip. A full-body thrill.  
Jack reaches down between you both and unbuckles his belt with one hand in the blink of an eye. Evidently he’s had a lot of practice doing that. From what we’ve all heard about him, he’s got an affinity for his secretaries and I suppose it’s a lot more practical, when running an interstellar corporation and living a life of debauchery, to learn how to undo your belt one-handed on the fly. That way, you can do paperwork _and_ get a blowjob under your desk from the poor girl who’s definitely not paid well enough for the hours she must put in under there.  
He pushes in nice and slow and that’s about all the ceremony you get. He doesn’t do you the kindness of taking it easy and you’re glad of it. Slow is for old age pensioners. You didn’t come here so that you could find a new boyfriend to go steady with and take home to the parents; you came here because you wanted Handsome Jack to fuck you blind and leave you walking out of here with a Specs Direct prescription and bruises like an anaemic who met the thick end of a baseball bat.  
Heavy breaths and rough lazy kisses vie for which can interrupt you the most often as you speak.  
“I - I don’t wanna... alarm you,” you breathe, tilting your head back as Jack bites at your shoulder. “But I... think we’re being watched.”  
Jack hums, smiles into your ear and purrs like a cat. “Good,” he says and if you weren’t so disconcerted by the heavy eye contact you’re making with the spindly looking blonde man standing in the doorway of the apartment, then you’d probably unravel at the sound of that purr filling your ear with sweet golden honey.  
“No, really,” you giggle, pushing him away from your ear. “I think someone wants to speak to you.”  
Jack turns over his shoulder and groans. “Oh for - Jesus Christ, Blake, what now?”  
The skinny blonde man keeps a stiff upper lip, keeping his eyes on Jack the whole time. Which is mighty noble of him given the fantastic and quite frankly prize-winning view he has of you as Jack rolls off you and zips up his jeans. Honestly, this man is either as straight as a U-bend, has seen way too many genitals on Handsome Jack’s sofa to find the sight of them shocking anymore, or is the first in a new product line of highly sophisticated and real looking loader bots with absolutely no social response programming whatsoever. Maybe a little bit of all three. Although given the way he side-eyes you with a look of mild disgust, perhaps he’s just a derogatory prick who doesn't think you're worth being scandalised by.  
“I came to talk to you about something important, sir,” the man called Blake says, nose held a little too high for someone who’s calling someone else ‘sir’ for a living.  
“Well?” Jack prompts, stretching back in his seat with his ankle resting on his knee. “Say it then.”  
Blake looks shifty - shiftier than Hyperion’s usually look, anyways. He glances at you, eyes flicking back to Jack again in a flash, like he’s drumming up some sort of calculation in his head. “It’s about Control Core Angel,” he says, a little quieter.  
Jack’s eyes go wide with panic for a fraction of a second before he reins it in and jumps up off the sofa. “Right,” he says. “Yeah, sure. I’ll be down to the meetin' room in a few ticks.” Jack turns to you. “You’ll see yourself out, right, babe? Cool, I’ll call ya.”  
You’re up and off the sofa - dress hastily pulled down to cover your important bits - and ushered towards the door before you can blink. Jack has little more to offer you than a quick kiss goodbye in the corridor before he urgently strides down to the opposite end of the hallway with Blake briefing him on something under his breath. Once they turn the corner, you graciously stick up your middle finger in the direction they’d disappeared in.  
You’re left with your coat and bag shoved into your arms, a huge Torgue shotgun-sized hole in your self-esteem, and a residual horniness that makes you feel even more pissed off at Jack for being able to get you going even after dropping you like a used condom found under somebody's bed and mortally wounding your pride in the process.  
Interesting reaction he had to those words, though, huh? _Control Core Angel._ The only Angel you know is the AI that’s helping the Vault Hunters back at Sanctuary.  
But while you’re handy to have around for making the place look prettier and livening the place up with the occasional bit of sexpionage, you’re not clued in enough to know what in the hell the Angel’s deal is or how she could possibly connect to Jack. Of course, it could just be a coincidence. Jack has a flare for the dramatic, after all. It could be that he just liked the way "Control Core Angel" sounded on the tongue.  
You find yourself smiling at the thought of him and roll your eyes at yourself for even thinking of him outside of the job. Making a mental note to yourself, reminding you to mention Control Core Angel to Lilith or Roland when you get back, you head for the lift at the end of the corridor and press the button for the ground floor. You've got plenty of things to think about on your way down. Just a small step closer to finding those codes and a little closer to stopping Jack from tearing the planet open from north pole to south.  
Of course, it _is_ still the codes you want… right?


End file.
